


History Repeats Itself

by ghaskan



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen, OCs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 11:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghaskan/pseuds/ghaskan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A compilation of the (hi)stories of my old World of Warcraft roleplay characters. Written between 2011 and 2012. Started writing new roleplay characters in late 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grazmot Windseeker

Grazmot was born in the bloody land that was Hellfire Peninsula. Draenor had not been always that way, but after the orc's sealed the Shadow Pack and slaughtered the Draenei, the land had been ravaged and drained by the Warlock's dark magic and the bloodthirsty Horde's needs.

When Grazmot was old enough to chew bits of meat his mother could rarely find, she decided to sell her son to buy herself a better life. A grizzled warlock decided to do so, giving her some meat and furs in trade for the pup.

Despite being a slave of a practitioner of the dark arts, Grazmot was quite fortunate. His master fed him well, and the young orc was able to ease his thirst with fine water. As soon as Grazmot was able to walk and carry a weapon at the same time, an ursine orc whose red hair was stroked with gray began to visit Grazmot and train him in the arts of combat a few hours per day. Grazmot passed the rest of the time with his master, learning about the history of the orcs before they embraced the shadowy ways. The tales always made the warlock's eyes become watery, but Grazmot never questioned why and simply absorbed the informations like a sponge.

Then it all changed. When Grazmot had only completed a decade of existence, the Dark Portal was opened and the Horde rushed to invade the new fertile lands beyond. Grazmot's master was urged to follow the first wave, and thus he brought his slave with him to a new land.

For the younger orc, it was a shock. Accustomed to a dusty land, with ugly vegetation here and there and next to no water, he was stunned to see the new, swampy land. There were plenty of green plants, water poured from everywhere and there were even healthy animals, so many of them!

However, there was no time to admire the landscape. Knowing the Horde would hurry to find battle and exhaust the resources on the way, the warlock went against the wave and he and his slave settled by the sea, in the East, where they rarely saw any or wandering. Most of the orcs marched to the North or West, attacking a race of pink skinned humanoids who called themselves humans.

Finally at peace and with plenty of food and water, the master freed his slave, leaving one night without Grazmot noticing. The young orc was now liberated from his master who, despite all the evil about his craft, wanted him to live well, all because he was a youngster who could embrace the orcish heritage, which the warlock missed so much.

With his brute strength and cunning, Grazmot survived with only the necessary, hunting beasts, drinking the swamp's water and munching some herbs when sick.

Rarely did Grazmot find any orc, especially after the fall of the human capital, Stormwind. Still, he managed to converse occasionally with one or two orcs, and the major news managed to reach his ears. Five years after the fall of Stormwind, the orcs set sail to the North, searching for more humans to slay and lands to conquer.

Grazmot stayed, however. Glory and honour seemed not to be the main reason behind the genocide caused by the orcs, not when compared to the tales Grazmot's old master used to share. No, he would stay and wait. Surely the orcs of the bloodthirsty, corrupted Horde would find reason, even if it took them a thousand years.

Not too long after the departure of most of his people, Grazmot noticed that orcs and humans alike began to wander more and more often on the swamps he now called home. He got to know that the orcs had been defeated and that they were being pulled back to the Dark Portal. Grazmot still did nothing to help his murderous peers, and, instead, he hid well, not bothering at all to know that he and a few scattered clans were stuck in Azeroth. At last there would be some peace in the world, and maybe the orcs would embrace their old ways once more.

Aware that the humans now occasionally patrolled the swamps and killed any orc at first sight, Grazmot simply kept on hiding in the most remote corner of the swamps and for years he knew nothing concerning what was going on Azeroth.

About ten years after his self-imposed exile, Grazmot was astonished to see another orc wandering on his domains. However, the stranger was not one who babbled of the taste of blood and the betrayal of the warlocks, but one who made lightning kneel before him. Grazmot recognized him as a shaman from his old master's tales. He saw that as a good omen and left the relative safety of his hideout, decided to communicate with the outsider.

Grazmot's brain almost exploded with so much information to absorb and analyze. The shaman told him that, a few years ago, the orcs had been ultimately defeated by the humans and the remnants in Azeroth were being kept as prisoners. Apparently, the first orc of the recent wave of shamans was now leading a new Horde. That Warchief had freed the orcs from the camps where they were held prisoners and now they were rebuilding the Horde, but not the bloodthirsty Horde Grazmot had known. Instead, the orcs now focused on recovering the old traditions, from years past when they were spiritual beings who believe in shamanism and honour.

Finally, the shaman said he had been sent to scout the land, looking for hermits like Grazmot, and offered the self-exiled orc shelter among the new Horde. Grazmot hesitated at first, but eventually accepted, mesmerized to know that his prayers had been heard.

Grazmot had a hard time blending in with the rest of civilization after so many years of solitude, but eventually he got used to it. He passed most of that period honing his battle skills and defending the weaker ors from the attacks from humans and other threats.

After a few months the orcs were on the move yet again. They were setting sail to a land called Kalimdor. It was said that it was there the Horde could find and fulfil its destiny. Grazmot eagerly joined and, although the voyage was no easy one, he was grateful to be part of it.

When they arrived Grazmot was a bit disappointed to see that Kalimdor was all but a desert. Still, it had more life and water than Draenor, and perhaps other bits of Kalimdor were more verdant and lush.

As the orcs advanced they found the Tauren, half-humanoid, half-bovine beings. The Tauren spoke of the fabled Stonetalon Peak, where the Horde could find the destiny they sought after. As such, they moved in the Peak's direction and, along the way, they made several outposts. Grazmot's party was left behind to defend one that would today be known as The Crossroads.

The orcs at the outpost lived in relative peace, only having to do occasional patrols to kill quillboars, harpies and centaurs molesting their hunters. Only several months after did they hear about the battle against the Burning Legion and, like what happened to all the outposts at Kalimdor, aid was requested from the frontline.

Grazmot and his companions rode swiftly, but when they arrived the battle was already over. However, there were still many things to do, as the genocide left many orcs, humans and night elves wounded and even more of them were dead. Pyres burned for days in an attempt to stop possible diseases from spreading from the corpses. The wounded were tended by healers and warriors alike.

Weeks after those events the orcs were once again on a new land, the ragged Durotar, but this time they were there to stay. While Orgrimmar was being built, Grazmot had the opportunity to participate in the Om'riggor, the orcs' rite of passage to adulthood, despite his age. From the trials he earned the surname Windseeker for his efforts against a particularly windy day.

Subsequent to his showdown at Om'riggor, Grazmot was invited to train as a shaman. Some saw his success against the hurricane and thought of it as an omen of the elements. From that day on Grazmot learned the way of the shaman: first by doing pilgrimage with nothing but the necessary, and still helping those on the way; then by carving totems and worshiping the elements; finally, by meditating for a day without eating or drinking to then ask the elements for their future aid, which they conceded. With all the rites complete, Grazmot was accepted as a shaman, and to this day he still wears the mantle with pride.

Recently, Grazmot decided to leave the safety of Orgrimmar and venture through the scarred world of Azeroth, to learn more about the elements, his and other people and himself.


	2. Kashu Dawnseeker

Long ago in the Barrens a male calf was born to the warrior Tarku and his mate Ba'leh, from the Dawnseeker tribe. The joyous couple named their offspring Kashu and raised him with utmost care: they made sure that Kashu trained for long to learn how to survive alongside his nomad tribe in the Barrens.

As he waited for his brawn to develop, he was taught by his mother, Ba'leh, the finest Tauren arts: leather crafting and sculpture. With this knowledge, he was able to help making clothes out of the animals' leathers and furs to dress up his tribe, as well as create totems to appeal the Earthmother. Besides, the young tauren learned how to cook, mostly simple meals as the tribe rarely had time to stand by and wait for the meat to roast; they usually dried it for later consumption.

When he hit adulthood (biologically; Tauren weren't considered adult until much later), Kashu began to train to become a warrior and hunter for the tribe. Although Tarku wished to train his son himself, their way of living implied constant patrols and few stops, and, as such, Kashu was trained little by little, by all the capable Tauren of the tribe.

At last, the day the young bull had been waiting for came. Kashu had hit the age when Tauren were considered fully grown, both physically and mentally, and able to participate in the Great Hunt. With his father's blessing, Kashu departed, hoping to honour the Earthmother by excelling in his rites.

First were the Rite of Strength and Courage. The tribe's elders had told Kashu to find and kill a beast he found the most suitable for his skills, using only his brawn, courage and a spear. Kashu decided to chose a Kodo, as he was confident of his abilities. With what he had learned from the Dawnseekers, he knew Kodo had a nomadic behaviour not all that different from Tauren themselves, as their routes always included the Barrens' oasis. Determined, Kashu wandered for a day until he found an oasis, and settled down, waiting for his prey.

His loiter paid off. After sleeping under Mu'sha's caring gaze thrice, Kashu spotted a single Kodo bull resting close to the waters. The young tauren was thankful for not having to face an entire herd alone, but the beast was still a very powerful one. Kashu summoned all his courage and strength, and fought it, dodging attacks the best he could while trying to hit the Kodo's heart with the spear. After being struck by the mighty beast's horn once, Kashu surprised the Kodo by getting up and charging towards it, effectively piercing its heart.

Tired and ragged from the fight, Kashu rested for a couple of days, occupying his time with skinning the Kodo, drying its meat and preserving its horn before progressing to the next rite: the Rite of Honour. For this rite, the elders had ordered Kashu to kneel down and thank everyone and everything he knew, that had helped him, no matter how long it took.

After packaging all the goods he had gotten from the Kodo, Kashu knelt down and thanked all those who and which had helped him grow and live long enough to be able to attain his first kill. It took him two days and one sleepless night, but, in the end, Kashu felt refreshed and matured.

The tauren rested for a while, and soon came the time for the last rite: the Rite of Vision. As oriented by the elders, Kashu drank the Water of the Seers he had brought with him. Kashu was astonished to see the vision in front of him: there was a talking ghost wolf in front of him, who offered to guide the tauren back to his tribe! The young bull accepted promptly. While carrying the Kodo parts in a large sack made with some of the beast's skin, Kashu ran after the ghostly wolf.

As hours upon hours boiled under the unforgiving sun, between blank-minded periods, Kashu reflected on his deeds, and hoped they had been fulfilled as expected by the elders and the Earthmother herself.

When Kashu found his tribe settling a temporary camp, he was greeted warmly and welcomed back with open arms by his brethren. Kashu wanted to thank the wolf for its help, but when he turned to do so, the ghostly animal was gone.

The elders congratulated Kashu on successfully fulfilling the tasks and honouring the Earthmother, and his parents, Tarku and Bal'eh, were very proud, though they strangely looked slightly older in Kashu's eyes.

As an adult on his own right, Kashu had to join the patrols both for hunting down prey and threats, namely the Centaur. Kashu soon learnt the weapon was as important as strength and cunning, and asked the tribe's most talented weapon crafter to make him one suited for his battle style.

Under Kashu's guidance, the weapon crafter made a polearm with two spearheads. On their turn, the spearheads were double edged, perfect to slice and rend, and each of them had an independent prickle to pierce. The handle was made of metal, making it possible to smash bones using it with some ease. The grip was made of tough leather, to make it static, and shaped to fit Kashu's fingers in perfection. To make the grip even more efficient, a strap of leather was utilized to hold the hand so the spear could not be easily dropped. Kashu named the weapon Isham.

A few years passed. Kashu's father had died fighting the centaur and his mother became a venerable of the Dawnseekers. During this period, Kashu finally found a lifelong mate among his tribe. From this union, two offspring were born: a male and a female. They were Kashu's joy and pride, and both he and his mate raised them as well as they could, with a small helping hand from the tired Ba'leh.

Time rolled on again, uneventful and merciful for the Tauren. Ba'leh passed on meanwhile. Her face had been peaceful when they found her in the morning, as she had been summoned by the Ancestors themselves to join them at last. The tribe grieved her departure from the physical realm, but accepted it well.

Not everything was so serene and tolerable, however. As of late the Centaur attacks had become more and more frequent, as well as deadlier, and one by one the brave Dawnseekers were being murdered by the half humanoid, half horse brutes.

Even though the Dawnseekers were managing to survive, their numbers were being hindered, and Kashu feared a large Centaur attack would wipe them from the face of Kalimdor.

Unfortunately, that fear became a reality.

Under the cover of the night, the dishonourable Centaur attacked. Kashu fought as well as he could, but his mate was murdered and his son and daughter disappeared. Along with those great losses, several Tauren from the tribe were killed or kidnapped. Only a few Dawnseekers were left, and helpless, they searched for another tribe willing to aid them.

On the verge of death, a desolated Kashu as well as the tired remnants of his tribe found the noble Tauren from the Bloodhoof tribe. After helping them recover, the Bloodhooves told the other tribesmen they were fighting alongside a strange new race of greenskins to fend off the Centaurs and reach the greenlands of Mulgore, where they could settle and live in harmony. Fascinated, the Dawnseekers agreed to tag along with the other tribe.

Ultimately, the Tauren, aided by the Orcs, managed to drive the Centaur off. To repay their debt, one thing the Tauren did, and the only one in which the Dawnseekers participated, was the battle of Mount Hyjial. Kashu was overwhelmed by the terrors, the demons, and, although still in grief for his losses, he did what he could to fight alongside his tribe, to extinguish that evil from the face of Azeroth once and for all.

Following the defeat of the Burning Legion, the Tauren had peace at last. They travelled to Mulgore, where they settled, building the marvellous city of Thunder Bluff, as well as some villages, namely the Bloodhoof Village.

The Dawnseekers still had vigour to fight for the Horde, an alliance of races the Orcs had forged, but Kashu did not long for battles any longer. He had grown old; he felt weaker and more pragmatic. The elder understood the youngsters and their yearning for action, but the fight against the Alliance made no sense to him. While the Burning Legion and the Centaur had been real threats, the Alliance was just an union of rightful races, led by the Humans, who shared a foolish history of old hatreds with the Orcs. It was a fight for domination, a fight for selfish interests, and that did not bode well to Kashu.

Instead, the tauren decided to stay in Thunderbluff, and call it home. There, he would finish his grieving in peace, and try his best to help younger Tauren preserve their old ways, as they were overwhelmed by new customs brought in by their allies.

Since the city is open to all the Horde's races, Kashu taught a lot about the basic principles of Tauren life to other races, and has moreover learnt a lot about the outside world, even if he has never left Northern Kalimdor. Fascinated by all the intricate stories everyone seemed had, Kashu became a self-proclaimed storyteller, using stories he heard from the elders before him, as well as experiences from his life, to teach the Tauren's beliefs he sought to preserve, as well as listen to others' both to feed his own curiosity as well as to understand their racial points of view, to improve his technique employed to approach each individual.

Recently, Kashu still mostly dwells in Thunder Bluff, doing what he does best: speaking, be it simply to converse or to tell a story.


	3. Arrok Stonehoof

You want to hear a tale, eh? It's fine mate, I'll give you one.

It all started quite a while ago... It was over half a century, in fact. Back then, a female tauren lived happily alongside her mate, both of them with a "oh so perfect" snowy fur. Their tribe prospered, and, as such, the taureness could dedicate herself to a less useful craft: sculpturing. Although she did not feed or dress anyone, she was so good at what she did that she became a prominent member of her tribe.

But, mate, while life's not a sea of roses, some people make it even less pink on their own accord. And that's what the taureness did.

As you probably know, Tauren tribes used to be mostly nomadic. Tribes rarely met, however, when they did, there was always some partying and whatnot to celebrate the fact, no matter how dull that may sound.

One day, the taureness' tribe met the brutal Grimtotem. Of course, the other tribe wasn't very glad, but traditions were traditions, and a mild, if not tense, social gathering was hosted as it had ever been.

During said gathering, the pure and exalted taureness caught a glimpse of what she believed to be Tauren perfection: tall, muscular, all pretty and fine... except that he was a Grimtotem, his fur unmistakably black. But love, or desire, was powerful enough to render her common sense defenceless.

The Grimtotem also saw something in her, whatever it was. Hence, that night they slipped away and... Well, mate, we don't need details for this, do we?

Moving on... Nobody ever got to know what happened during that night, at least, not right away. Fate has its twists and it decided to play one on the unsuspecting taureness. Her belly started to swell, and soon enough the Shaman knew she was pregnant. Obviously, people thought the baby was her mate's, the second to come from his blood – they already had an adorable small female calf, her pelt a mirror of her parents'.

The facade lasted for a good while, but lies never endure the passing of time. When the taureness finally gave birth, the calf was not pure white like it should be... instead, his cloak was pitching black.

Yes, that's right mate. That calf was me and this is my history. Don't leave yet, if you want to continue to listen to a tale. There's still some stuff that needs to be known.

Like I was saying, the taureness, my mother, gave birth to me, a black calf. At first, her mate felt confusion, and, afterwards, came rage, a burning outburst of emotions that made me cry the hell out of my lungs right away! Disgusted, not just by my mother's betrayal but also by part of my heritage, he ended his mateship with her and rejected me, and even my sister, as his kin.

I can't say I have had a happy calfhood – at least, it wasn't joyous in the way one would imagine. More than anything, it had its moments...

Throughout my first years, my innocence overcame the hateful glances and rude comments. I simply played with my sister, like all other Tauren calves. Tag, Hide and Seek... all those games that entertained us while honing our mental and physical skills, to ready us for life.

The other calves refused to play with me, so I grew very attached to her. Wherever she was, it was very common to find me as well. To this day, I still care a lot about her...

When I reached the age when my muscles started to stuff and my size to increase, my naivety remained mostly intact. Eventually, besides the old light-hearted competitions I had with my sister, I was finally accepted among the other Tauren to play one game... one in which I had to wrestle with other male youths.

Modesty aside, I was fairly good at it and won often. Slowly, I started to see grudges behind their small eyes, for they wanted to give the "half-Grimtotem scum" a beating and leave my moral reduced to pulp, but, instead, I always appeared jolly during the matches.

After that realization, I began paying more attention to what others said when close to me. It was not unusual to hear mutters of a "Night Fiend" and, in time, I found out they used that lovely term because I was considered a fiend, with pelt as black as the night, who had been conceived in a fiendish night...

I tried to ignore those comments, but it wasn't easy, mate, when the only person who truly liked me was my pure white sister, who everyone, including myself, pitied for having such a terrible brother... but yet everyone refused to treat her really well, and I grew to blame myself.

One day, while I and she were playing tag, a vicious lioness (for she didn't have a mane) jumped from within a set of bushes and tried to pounce at my sister, but I was quicker. I leapt, placing myself in front of her and sponged the blow. That did not hurt me too much, except for a scratch or two, but the filthy beast kept clawing me as I wrestled it, and soon blood was pouring freely from my snout.

I don't know how, but I managed to snap the lioness neck. Sure that the rampaging creature was now dead, I rose up, with my breath ragged and a victorious smile on my lips, and eyed my sister. Thankfully, she was alright, but she looked at me with her beautiful eyes completely wide, as if I, too, was a dangerous beast.

Late to the party, a group of hunters from our tribe came, and the gratitude I received for my heroic actions was a slap on my bloody face.

Fortunately, after the shock, my sister understood I was doing my best to protect her, and we became even closer. The scars I then bore, and still bear, on my snout disfigured me, but instead of making me the pride of my tribe, they were the mark of my brutality. It's amusing what hatred can do to one's deeds.

At last, I found someone else. He was already an adult when we met and I little more than a youth, but his warm amber eyes were more open than everyone else's, and his gray fur transmitted a sense of lack of bias, perfect neutrality...

The Tauren, Ruon, was one of the tribe's greatest hunters, and upon hearing nobody was willing to teach me the ancestral arts of survival, he decided it was time to intervene. He called me to his tent, and I got ready to hear some more rude sayings that I should just go and die in a hole.

What happened next, however, was far beyond my most optimistic expectations.

Ruon and I shared introductions, and then he scolded not me, but the tribe. He thought they were being short sighted and awfully cruel. I was shocked, but content all the same. My sight was clouded, due to my joyous tears, I suppose. When you are despised and find anyone who is eager to help you... Mate, it's the best feeling in the world.

To my delight, Ruon offered to be my mentor, and I promptly accepted. Between stumbling words and sobbing, I managed to promise him I'd give it all, and even more, to thank him for his kindness.

My life changed quite a bit. While the other Tauren were still reluctant to accept me, after I got a highly-respect member of the tribe as my mentor, the comments died down (though I was aware the hate was still there) and my sister was immediately taken under the wing of another taureness, who had been afraid of public repression, to teach her the same arts I was learning.

Knowing that my sister was now in good hands, I could focus on my current task: become a good hunter for the tribe.

Ruon proved to be both a good friend and a good teacher. With him I learned how to track down beasts, as well as how to land a killing blow without having to wrestle them. He also taught me how to skin beasts without damaging their meat, how to get the most of them (which organs are good, which are bad) and, most importantly, what their behaviour was. Indeed, it was with him that I learned the powerful motto "know your enemy".

As years drifted by lazily, without nothing new going on, I grew to become the great hunter I had promised to be, but, unfortunately, Ruon wasn't there to watch me complete my rites. A couple years before I did them, he had been trampled by his ridding Kodo, for no apparent reason. Ancestors have mercy of his soul. Since then, I began despising those mucky creatures, refusing to ride them unless there was no other choice.

However, finally came the time for change to appear once more. One fateful morning, my sister told me a couple of races, called Orcs and Trolls, had helped the Tauren, mostly of the Bloodhoof tribe, to drive the Centaur away and allow passage to the verdant hills of Mulgore.

More than wanting to go with my tribe to these flourishing lands, I wanted to meet those two races who had been strong and kind enough to help mine. A new chapter started for me, mate.

Sorrowfully, I told my sister I couldn't take our tribe anymore, and that I would leave to find out a new path for my life. Many tears were shed by us during that day, but it was with a smile that she bid me farewell. Now that I had her blessing, I didn't need anything else.

Since I refused to take a Kodo with me, the road to Orgrimmar was long and harsh, but when I arrived, my jaw dropped to the dusty red ground of Durotar. Sure, the city was still being built. Nevertheless it was already impressive, with its great walls and many buildings. Probably a human would find the architecture crude, but for a nomadic fellow like myself it was huge and wonderful.

There I made my first friends among the Orcs and Trolls. From my talks with them I got some odd speech patterns, mate, at least as far as Tauren standards go, but they were nice fellows, from harsh backgrounds and without the black and white sight my tribe had. Although they were kind, I did not want to live out of charity and managed to find my first job.

Caravans came and went between Orgrimmar and a recently built Goblin settlement (I had met a few of their race in Orgrimmar, small and ingenious creatures) called Ratchet, where they barely knew what Tauren were, but that was not a problem, for they liked us for our size and mighty combat expertise, as well as our calm and pragmatic behaviour outside the heat of battle. For those jobs, the only weapon I had was my old spear, a gift from Ruon himself, but I needed the money and I was certain of my abilities.

My overconfidence was shaken soon enough. Despite my high hopes, caravans proved to attract more attention than a single travelling bull, and renegades from all races I knew, even Tauren, plus the pink skinned humans, tried to raid us. While I and the rest of the guarding party always managed to drive them away, I scored wounds easily.

Thus came the great advice of a troll, scarred by years of battle, who fought with a gun. He told me guns were great mercenary tools, allowing you to shoot before being slashed to pieces. Under his guidance, I bought my first blunderbuss (in second hand, for coins weren't plentiful) and I was taught how to use it by him. Mate, it was love at first sight.

The blunderbuss didn't have as much of a range as the troll's gun, but it worked well enough and I was able to keep it in shape, as I had picked up the basics of engineering from occasional talks with the Goblin and some self-teaching. During battle, rarely did I have to raise my sabre, a gift from a caravan driver whose life I had saved once. I found sabres and swords in general to be so much better one handed weapons than axes or maces... while the sword slashed with ease and elegance, axes and maces were choppy and better used in two hands or with a shield.

Anyhow...Once I accumulated enough money to be able to afford being without working for a while, I decided to pay Mulgore a visit, to see how my brethren, and especially my sister, were doing.

When I ran from Ratchet to Mulgore, I could finally feel the difference of my speed and stamina as opposed to the years before. It felt great, mate, as did the sight of Mulgore. Green as promised, with plenty of water and beasts to slay, it was a long lost paradise, or a perhaps a quite big oasis.

I rapidly spotted the bluffs to the distance and knew, thanks to the power of gossip, that that was the new and mighty Tauren capital, Thunder Bluff.

If Orgrimmar amazed me, Thunder Bluff left me dumbstruck. It wasn't fortified like the orcish capital, but it didn't need to be, for one needed to ascend using lifts. I'm sure that, if I were an enemy, the guards would have knocked me down from the bluffs. However, even though I was expecting hateful glances... I didn't spot any. The guards looked at me and treated me as an equal, and I made sure to rush our introductions so I could pour joyous tears without anyone seeing.

In Thunderbluff, white Tauren, black Tauren, brown Tauren, gray Tauren... everyone lived in peace, without rude comments, without hate. That was the glory of the Horde – the glory of union.

My stay on Thunderbluff wasn't long, for two reasons. First, I didn't find my motive to stay, for my sister wasn't there. I tried to ask for her, but no matter how nice and kind, the other Tauren had no idea of whom she was and where she was. Second, I had to repay the Horde for their miracle somehow.

I raced back to Orgrimmar, where I bought my tool of trade – a new blunderbuss – to help the Horde. I joined in a few attacks against the Alliance, and while the payment wasn't impressive, the sense of fulfilment for helping those who had given me so much made up for all it.

Still, I permitted myself to be a little selfish towards the organization and, once in a while, take a job as a mercenary or two to get some extra coins. I always thought that was fair, for I wouldn't fight that well for the Horde if I wasn't well geared, fed and rested.

To this day, that's still pretty much what I do. I travel about, help the Horde, hoard some coins... and search for my sister. I'll tell you mate, I beg to the Earthmother that she is alright, and that I'll be able to find her.


	4. Nikuun

Travelling back through time, on the soil of an unknown planet, the female Draenei Reesta gave birth, something so natural, but which felt magical all the same. In Draenei society, for who years were a mere blink of an eye, infants were celebrated with great ceremonies, and that one was no exception. During the commemoration, the newborn received his name: from that day onwards, he would be known among his people as Nikuun.

The joy of the moment was short-lived, however. As soon as the baby started giving his first steps, the Burning Legion, who had chased the Draenei for countless eons, had found them once again. Nikuun cried and cried with all his might, completely confused. Why was his home, Oshu'gun, taking off? Why were they leaving the safety of the earth?

Oshu'gun landed one, two, three, and many innumerable times more as Nikuun grew. With time, the youth understood that, if they did not escape when the Draenei started to mutter worried words about one "Burning Legion", limitless waves of demons would sweep them from the face of whichever planet they were on at that moment.

When Nikuun was old enough to be considered an adult, even among the Draenei, they landed on a planet that exuded prosperity. Fascinated by it, they stayed long enough to light the hope that, perhaps, the Burning Legion would not find them. The Draenei settled and named the planet Draenor, or "Exile's Refuge".

Comfortably established at last, the Draenei enjoyed what an extended period of peace could offer. Nikuun, in particular, proved to be skilled with the use of weapons, and soon enough he started joining parties which sought to hunt down animals that could feed the Draenei.

As decades ran by, an Exarch noticed Nikuun's crafty handing of weapons and decided to take him under his wing. The Exarch trained Nikuun, honing both his mental and physical skills. To his dismay, however, Nikuun, though faithful, lacked a close relationship with the Light required to join his order as a Vindicator. Still, the Exarch would not waste the other draenei's expertise, and named him guard of the town of Telredor.

Nikuun enjoyed his job there and did his best to keep both the town and himself at peace, despite the fact that he missed his parents, who lived in Shattrath City, greatly. To occupy his free time, Nikuun would occasionally help hunting parties, like he did before he became a guard. During that period, the draenei was also taught the basics of blacksmithing in order to keep his armour and weapon in shape.

As the Draenei prospered, the orcs grew as people. The brown-skinned creatures were becoming quite remarkable indeed and, unfortunately, that attracted the Burning Legion's attention as soon as they found the exiles.

The orcs, born fighters, but serene and honourable, were corrupted and turned into vicious emerald war machines. Caught completely off guard, the stalwart Draenei did their best to fight back, but, before long, they were overpowered by the green menace.

To save the Draenei from complete extinction, it was decided that most would be sacrificed to save a few. Nikuun was among those chosen to fall back to Tempest Keep, where the orcs would never find them, as they would believe the Draenei to be all dead and rotten.

Nikuun was thrilled for being given the opportunity to survive... at least until he understood the consequences. His parents had been killed during the monstrous attack launched at Shattrath, and many had seen their lives taken away to permit that Nikuun kept his own. Guilt swayed him. However, Nikuun decided the best way to honour those who fell was to keep going on and to excel at protecting the ones who still lived, even if he never truly forgave himself.

Almost immediately after these dreadful events, Tempest Keep was attacked by a band of creatures like the Draenei had seen before: their build was elegant, their skin pale and their eyes glowed with fel... Later, Nikuun would know that they were the Sin'dorei, the Blood Elves, but at the moment his utmost priority was to fight them back. With grim determination, he struggled to aid his comrades.

The Draenei were able to gain control of one of Tempest Keep's wings, named The Exodar, and attempted to escape. The Blood Elves, however, had sabotaged the vessel. When the Draenei managed to planeshift, they crashed soon after on another planet.

Although most of the escaping Draenei survived, their crashing had grave consequences for the local wild life. While a handful of Draenei did their best to heal the nature of the newly named Azuremyst and Bloodmyst isles, Nikuun continued his duties as a Peacekeeper, taking turns to either defend Exodar or fight off nearby threats that put their security at risk.

The Draenei were quickly found by the Night Elves, noble creatures of the forests, and it was the first time that they were exposed to the Alliance to which the Night Elves belonged. Marvelled by the sense of unity and the Alliance's past, the draenei was enthusiastic about joining the Alliance to participate in the crusade against the Burning Legion at Draenor, known as Outlands after a catastrophic explosion that thorn the planet apart.

Nikuun wanted to join the expedition, but he was required to stay at the Exodar to provide much needed defence, as the Draenei had already their numbers greatly hindered. Reluctantly, Nikuun stayed, hearing the news of the expedition with great interest.

After the defeat of the demonic threats, the call of war was once more heard by the draenei and, once more, his aid was refused, due to the meddling of the Cult of the Damned. However, later on, he finally managed to join the ranks of the Alliance after the Cult was stopped. Nikuun participated along with the Alliance Vanguard in the fight against the Undead Scourge when the final assault against Icecrown was launched. While he was not at the frontlines, the draenei fought with all his might, in an attempt to make up for his absence at previous fights for the Alliance.

Many good men and women perished, but, at last, the Lich King was killed. Exhausted, albeit content for the evil king's death, the warrior went back to the Exodar, where he rest for a few days.

In recent times, Nikuun has left his job as a guard and taken the mantle of the Alliance with increased loyalty, even if his first priority is still the Draenei. Now, the warrior travels around, always with an ear perked to hear the call for duty whenever his aid is required.


	5. Roger Paine

oger Paine was the last son to be born from the blood of William Paine, caretaker of a noble's farm in Lordaeron. Much to his father's dismay, Roger did not pick up after the family's good name, failing at even the simplest tasks at the farm – he would instead spend his days dozing around in their humble house, devouring over and over again the books from their thin collection. Not wanting his son to become a "housewife", William Paine forced Roger to enlist in the military.

However, Roger did not thrive. He had grown small and frail, always nervous, always pale. When skirmishes were had, he would fall sick or pass on them. His superiors at the military were growing impatient as time ran by.

One day, during a rare day off, Roger decided to explore a city they were staying at. He heard a soft, distant murmur that seemed to call for him. He followed it, attracted by its tenderness, just to see one of the most beautiful things in his whole short life.

A church, of gothic architecture, stood in front of him, a melancholy albeit crystalline chore of angelical voices reverberating from within. "The Light shall protect thy", they sang and, indeed, the sun that bathed the church's white stone seemingly made it glow with a caring holy light. Dragged in by the magnificence, by the promise of security, Roger entered the church.

"The Light shall protect you. The Light shall heal you. The Light shall guide you. All you need is to believe, and carry Its will", proclaimed a strong and clear masculine voice.

Roger looked up. Behind the pulpit stood a man, dressed in pure white, illuminate by a colourful shower of luminosity that was shed from a stained glass window at the back. His voice carried command, yet his eyes shone with warm kindness. Roger kneeled down before him.

He had heard of the Light before. It was for It that everyone at his home prayed, yet the young man had never before understood Its sheer beauty and affection.

"Father, may I carry out the Light's will and do Its bidding?" he pleaded, feeling an unusual certainty.

Leaving the Military behind, Roger moved to the church. His father, William Paine, seemed satisfied enough to have his son finding his own path, although he still felt a bittersweet disappointment for having one less pair of arms to help around the farm.

Roger started to study under the Father's tutelage. The older man would often remark that, if ignorance was a bliss, then knowledge was a blessing. Although Roger would preach from time to time as part of his education and sheer love for the Light, it was with books that he found true pleasure, and would often spend days at a time without catching a glimpse of sunlight.

One could say that Roger Paine had found his happiness. And yet, that happiness escaped his hands in an instant. Before anyone could stop it, the undead Plague struck, killing many of Lordaeron's citizens, and Roger was no exception.

That was it. No longer would he hear the Father's inspiring preaching, for a blade had sunk deep into his heart. No longer would he be able to finish reading every book from the Church's library, burnt to ashes during a raid to the settlement. No longer would he feel the gentle embrace of the Light, now that a greater darkness had consumed him.

A faint existence seemed to dwell in his memories... memories of growling, butchery and feasting upon flesh. A legion of abominable beings, walking corpses, intent to kill anything that breathed. Men clad in armour shining with hope...and painful baths of holiness.

The Light...a light did indeed glimmer, dim and ghastly. Roger was lying on the ground with a freezing apathy. He extended his arm; his hand was about to fall to rub his tired eyes...when a gruff, eerie scream escaped his rotten lips.

His hands were no longer human - a palm made of rags of dead skin and bits of decayed meat that ended in gnarled claws could no longer be Human. What had happened? Roger did not know. All he knew was that he was alive...sort of.

"Come right here you slacker, stop screamin' and get a move on!", bellowed a unnatural voice as a fist smacked on Roger's head. For the first time since his strange visions he felt something: pain.

He looked up. In front of him stood a man, dressed in dark rags, covered by a darkness accentuated by the torch he carried. His voice carried impatience and his eyes shone with an peculiar yellow glow. A corpse was talking to him. Roger ran away from the monster.

But his hands, his voice... was not Roger a monster as well? He dashed through the grass, shrouded by shadows, as the corpse who had welcome him from his sleep yelled orders that Roger could no longer comprehend.

After running for what appeared to be an eternity, Roger found a lake. There, he would be able to wash away his doubts. The puzzled man peered and, from the water's surface, a cadaverous green face with glowing yellow eyes peered at him with an expressionless look.

Roger let another aberrant scream out. He fell to the ground on his backside, cowering in fear of himself. He was one of them, a murderous monster! More than afraid, Roger was disgusted of himself.

"So yer there!"

Roger froze and stared from over his shoulder to who had interjected him. It was the one who had greeted him after his foul sleep.

"Let's arm you so ya can fight against the Scourge and serve the Dark Lady, eh?" continued the monster, "Do you remember yer past craft? Some do, could speed up things"

Fight...Roger knew he had fought for the military and that he was no good at the time. But fighting would mean needing weapons. A weapon was all he needed.

"Y-yes. W-w-was a w-warrior in the past. Good w-with d-d-daggers" he stuttered coldly.

Soon enough Roger and his greeter were in a village populated by spooky ruined buildings and walking corpses, who called themselves undead or, more commonly, Forsaken. It was a terrible sight he wanted to escape from.

As soon as he had a dagger in his possession, he promised to train in order to aid the Forsaken. A lie, albeit a so petty and necessary one. When Roger found himself out of the sight of any intelligent being, he attempted to bring down the dagger to meet his heart and free him from the shackles of undeath.

But the dagger stopped in midair. As much as Roger loathed his newfound self, his fear of Death was greater. He threw the useless weapon to the ground and gloomily walked back town, his shoulders drooped as if they carried the whole weight of Azeroth.

At the start of his new life, Roger remained depressive, committing further failed suicide attempts in secret. He was deemed unworthy of fighting as a footman, and thus he was thrown at Deathknell to learn the secrets of the Shadow due to his not-too-shabby wits. Without the willpower to retaliate, Roger 'lived' through months of learning, dominated by lethargy. He mastered some of the secrets of the shadows, descending further into his path of death.

One day, during his investigations, Roger found a book different from those he was used to. Instead of talking strictly of topics important to feed knowledge, that one told a fantastic tale that narrated the adventures of a dwarven explorer. Fascinated, Roger read, absorbing every word as a fragment of life that dwelled within the tattered pages.

Roger had found a reason to continue his existence – to read was to live, even if it was the life of a character, fictional or not. There were no obligations among the Forsaken that dictated that he had to stay and help. The laws of duty were, indeed, pretty lax, as most Forsaken worked out of free will, since they were thankful for being freed from one "Lich King". Roger felt no gratitude for his state. From his faint memories, he knew he had served as such a mindless servant, yet even that would be preferred over being able to think in his condition.

He left Deathknell, moving to the Undercity. The dead man went through his days reading once more, evading himself from his putrid reality. He would be swayed by depression once in a while, and self-loathing was part of his daily undeath, however, the books gave Roger a purpose.

He also went, and still goes, to visit other places from time to time, mostly in search of new manuscripts or to visit the important places of his foggy past – even if most of them are now destroyed.

To this day, Roger dwells in the walls of Undercity, living among the tales and teachings that books have to offer.


	6. Scarstripe of the Timbermaw

Once upon a time, a baby Furbolg was born within the Timbermaw tribe to a couple of aloof Furbolg. He did not receive any sort of maternal or paternal support, for all the tribesmen served as family. Although that gave the young Furbolg a lot of caring support, it also meant there was nobody to keep him in check and thus he enjoyed extended freedom, exploring places well beyond the tribe's hunting grounds.

During one of such explorations, the youth came across the most primal form of his people: a bear. While normally he was able to avoid them or run away, this one specimen gave a lot of chase and ended up catching up to him, swiping his chest open. Blood poured freely from the wound and he was ready to be taken to join his ancestors.

However, it was not the time for his life to come to a halt. Amidst his delirious scant thoughts and covered by a blurred vision, the young Furbolg was able to notice that someone had come to his rescue. With a sigh of relief, he blacked out.

When he woke up, he was greeted by a pair of illuminated silver orbs peering from an angular face, enclosed by the smallest remnants of a proud purple fur. There was no mistaking it – he had been saved by a humanoid, but of the likes he had never seen before. Later, as the youth retold the story, he would learn that his savior was part of an ancient race that called itself "Kal'dorei", the Night Elves.

The Night Elf attempted to speak in his language, but the Furbolg did not understand, shaking his head vigorously while trying to let the furless creature know what he meant by groaning a few words in Ursine. The Night elf smiled and attempted to reply in the same coin with an awkward phrase that meant something along the lines of "Go home. Me take you".

After pondering for a few moments, the young Furbolg got to his feet and patted his chest. Whatever wound he had was now gone and the only bad thing he felt was hunger. Without giving any sign to the Night Elf, the Furbolg took a move on to his camp.

As soon as he arrived, he expected his tribesmen to attack his savior, but when he looked back he was no longer there. Thank you and good riddance. After being scolded for his behaviour by one of the tribe's Shaman, he was praised for his courage to venture beyond the borders and received the name of "Scarstripe", in tribute to the long streak of a scar that now crossed from the rightmost part of his upper chest to his left hip.

Years ran by. Scarstripe reached an age in which he should contemplate what path to follow in life. The Furbolg was quick to refuse fighting or hunting as his only way to live, for he did not feed any special love for battle. Instead, his great liking of the nature he had delved so deep in the past aided him in choosing the way of the Shaman.

Taught by the same Shaman who had given him his name, Scarstripe learned how to communicate with the spirits that kept the balance in life: Earth, Fire, Water and Wind. It was with the former that he got along better, for its slowness, calm and patience soothed the Furbolg's spirit. While he managed to commune with the spirit of the Wilds once, the only thing Scarstripe discovered was that it was best to let the great mystery of life be and simply get to know the mortal creatures instead.

Scarstripe led a peaceful life of meditation until a big tragedy struck: twisted creatures known as "undead" and "demons" invaded the forest, tainting it into a decrepit shadow of its former self and corrupting many of its habitants, including entire tribes of Furbolgs.

Timbermaw's leader was quick to act and, before they could be caught by the plague, they fled to take refuge in the complex that they presently call Timbermaw Hold.

From the safety of the Hold's walls, Scarstripe watched as the nature was harmed greatly by the cruel menace, feeling utterly impotent. He, like the rest of his tribe, wanted to help those in a pinch more than anything, and yet they knew that doing so would be a petty effort and a complete suicide.

They waited. After the battle of Mount Hyjial, word came that the Legion had been defeated at the expense of the Night Elves immortality. At that moment, all that was left to do was to rebuild, something that the Timbermaw could not do alone, not when their lands had been cursed and countless tribes of Furbolgs had lost their mind.

Impressed by the Night Elves' selfless and, due to holding them in high regard for the help he was given in the past, Scarstripe made a decision: he would leave his tribe to live with the Night Elves, in hopes of gaining their favour and learning more about how to get rid of the plague that haunted his people.

And so he did. The druids taught him about the cleansing of plagues, especially via the use of pure water. Other elves, mostly from the military, advised him to aid in the slaughter of demons, who made it harder to lift the curse and who had been reported to provoke madness in some tribes of Furbolgs. Scarstripe took those teachings with growing respect and never forsake their importance.

Feeling ready to put up a fight to the corruption, in the present Scarstripe seeks to get aid from all the races of the Alliance and the Horde, in what he hopes will help heal the land and gain new friends for the Timbermaw and himself. In the meantime, he still serves as an ambassador of sorts between the Timbermaw and Darnassus, just in case everything goes terribly wrong.


	7. Grazmot - Redux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grazmot Windseeker's history rewritten.

Grazmot was born in Draenor before the land had been ripped apart by the fel energies that had then begun to consume it slowly. He never got to know his father and his mother, a young female, raised him until he was able to chew the scarce bits of meat she was able to find. Unable to sustain her child, and in a foolish attempt to buy both of them a better life, the mother sold her child to a warlock, one who had once lived closely with the elements of Draenor and the spirits of the ancestors, and who still retained some influence from the old days. Her last words were but a measly request: for the warlock to call her son Grazmot.

The warlock, a middle-aged orc who instilled fear and respect in the hearts of his clansmen, did a good job of taking care of the infant. In spite of this, as he later on told Grazmot, he had never had a child or a mate of his own, a consequence of his zealous dedication to shamanism, which had been abruptly cut short due to being abandoned by the elements and the spirits.

As much as the warlock tried to avoid it, a high ranking member of his clan found out about Grazmot while he was still a toddler. Bewildered by the waste of resources being channelled into his young mouth, the high ranking clansman demanded that the warlock forced the youngster to age using his dark magic, or, otherwise, he would execute Grazmot on the spot. Devoid of any other options, the warlock sucked the youth’s childhood, reluctantly taking it for himself.

For a good while, Grazmot was confused by the sudden changes in his body and mind. The warlock managed to save him from further troubles by making him his official apprentice, although in practise he never taught Grazmot anything about his horrible profession. For some time they were untroubled by the doings of the Horde, and the warlock used that period to tell Grazmot about the old days, back when the land was completely healthy and the orcs good, traditional people.

Grazmot was not fully convinced by this tale. His partner of mischief, a young orc about his age who, in the words of Grazmot’s mentor, “had it easy for being born in the right family”, constantly bragged about “how cool” warrior training was and how “awesome” the older warriors, especially his older brother, were in battle. Tricked by the action-filled tales, Grazmot decided to slip away from the warlock’s house, where he spent most of his time, guarded from the malice of the outside world. Certainly, the Horde was a lot better than what his mentor foretold; maybe, in fact, he was just trying to make Grazmot miss out on all the fun he had when he was away from home.

Alone, the young orc sneaked his way to the training grounds, and watched several scenes unfold in front of his golden eyes. Young orcs, some his age, some a bit younger, fought against each other. They did not look happy, unlike his playtime partner: many bore wounds and scars; others had their bodies out of proportions, with limbs longer than others, for one; some looked utterly confused and stopped fighting all together, to then be spanked by the older orcs in charge; and many, many other ugly things that his innocent mind had trouble comprehending.

When Grazmot thought things could not get worse than that, an orcish warrior with a malicious gaze in his eyes laughed at one of the youngsters, calling him a wimp who could not even use his axe to kill a fly. Others joined in, calling the mistreated orc a stream of other hideous names, and eventually some got overly excited and started beating him to a bloody pulp.

Disgusted, Grazmot had time to notice one last thing before turning his eyes away. Next to the older orc that had started it all, stood his friend, laughing and cursing just as much as the others. In fact, Grazmot noticed that his friend and the warrior shared similar features, much like brothers in blood.

Grazmot returned to his mentor’s house. The warlock asked him why he had not eaten dinner that night, but all Grazmot said was that he was alright and then he went to bed.

From that day forth, Grazmot avoided contact with the warlock’s clansmen as much as he could, and gained huge interest in the tales of the days of old. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was still hope that the golden age of the orcs would come to be once more.

One day, it all changed. When Grazmot’s body had unnaturally aged little more than a decade, the Dark Portal was opened and the Horde rushed to invade the new fertile lands beyond. Grazmot's master was urged to follow the first wave, and thus he brought his slave with him to a new land.  
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Knowing that the Horde would hurry to find battle and exhaust the resources on the way, the warlock went against the wave and he and his slave settled by the sea, to the East, where they rarely saw any orc wandering. Most of the orcs marched to the North or West, attacking a race of pink skinned humanoids who called themselves humans.

Finally at peace and with plenty of food and water, the master freed his slave, leaving one night without Grazmot noticing. The young orc was now liberated from his master who, despite all the evil about his craft, wanted him to live well, all because he was a youngster who could embrace the orcish heritage, which the warlock missed so much.

With his brute strength and cunning, Grazmot survived with only the necessary, hunting beasts, drinking the swamps' water and munching some herbs when sick.

Rarely did Grazmot find any orc, especially after the fall of the human capital, Stormwind. Still, he managed to occasionally converse with one or two orcs, and the major news managed to reach his ears. Five years after the fall of Stormwind, the orcs set sail to the North, searching for more humans to slay and lands to conquer.

Grazmot stayed, however. Glory and honour seemed not to be the main reason behind the genocides caused by the orcs, not when compared to the tales Grazmot's old master used to share. Besides, Grazmot knew well how far some of them were willing to go for a chance to spill blood. No, he would stay and wait. Perhaps the orcs of the bloodthirsty, corrupted Horde would find reason in the memories of the peaceful times that a few still held in their hearts, even if it took them a thousand years.

Not too long after the departure of most of his people, Grazmot noticed that orcs and humans alike began to wander more and more often on the swamps he now called home. He got to know that the orcs had been defeated and that they were being pulled back to the Dark Portal. Grazmot still did nothing to help his murderous peers, and, instead, he hid well, not bothering at all to know that he and a few scattered clans were stuck in Azeroth. At least there would be some peace in the world.

Aware that the humans now occasionally patrolled the swamps and killed any orc at first sight, Grazmot simply kept on hiding in the most remote corner of the swamps and for years he knew nothing concerning what was going on Azeroth.

Close to twenty years after his arrival at the swamps, Grazmot was astonished to see another orc wandering on his domains. However, the stranger was not one who babbled of the taste of blood and the betrayal of the warlocks, but one who made lightning kneel before him. Grazmot recognized him as a shaman from his old master's tales. He saw that as good omen and left the relative safety of his hideout, decided to communicate with the outsider.

Grazmot's brain almost exploded with so much information to absorb and analyse. The shaman told him that, a few years ago, the orcs had been ultimately defeated by the humans and the remnants in Azeroth were being kept as prisoners. Apparently, the first orc of the recent wave of shamans was now leading a new Horde. That Warchief had freed the orcs from the camps where they were held prisoners and now they were rebuilding the Horde, but not the bloodthirsty Horde Grazmot had known. Instead, the orcs now focused on recovering the old traditions, from years past when they were spiritual beings who believe in shamanism and honour.

Finally, the shaman said he had been sent to scout the land, looking for hermits like Grazmot, and offered the self-exiled orc shelter among the new Horde. Grazmot hesitated at first, but eventually accepted, mesmerized to know that his prayers had been heard.

Grazmot had a hard time blending in with the rest of civilization after so many years of solitude, but eventually he got used to it. He passed most of that period honing his battle skills and defending the weaker orcs from the attacks of humans and other threats.

After a few months, the orcs were on the move yet again. They were setting sail to a land called Kalimdor. It was said that it was there that the Horde could find and fulfil its destiny. Grazmot eagerly joined and, although the voyage was no easy one, he was grateful to be part of it.

When they arrived, Grazmot was a bit disappointed to see that Kalimdor was all but a desert. Still, unlike Draenor, it had not been touched by corruption, and perhaps other bits of Kalimdor were more verdant and lush.

As the orcs advanced they found the Tauren, half-humanoid, half-bovine beings. The Tauren spoke of the fabled Stonetalon Peak, where the Horde could find the destiny it sought after. As such, they moved in the Peak's direction and, along the way, several outposts were made. Grazmot's party was left behind to defend one that would today be known as The Crossroads.

The orcs at the outpost lived in relative peace, only having to do occasional patrols to kill quillboars, harpies and centaurs molesting their hunters. Only several months after did they hear about the battle against the Burning Legion and, like what happened to all the outposts at Kalimdor, aid was requested from the frontlines.

Grazmot and his companions rode swiftly, but when they arrived the battle was already over. However, there were still many things to do, as the genocide left many orcs, humans and night elves wounded and even more of them were dead. Pyres burned for days in an attempt to stop possible diseases from spreading from the corpses. The wounded were tended by healers and warriors alike.

Weeks after those events the orcs were once again on a new land, the ragged Durotar, but this time they were there to stay. While Orgrimmar was being built, Grazmot had the opportunity to participate in the Om'riggor, the orcs' rite of passage to adulthood, despite his age. From the trials he earned the surname Windseeker, for his efforts against a particularly windy day.

Subsequent to his showdown at Om'riggor, Grazmot was invited to train as a shaman. Some saw his success against the hurricane and thought of it as an omen of the elements. From that day on Grazmot started to train the ways of the shaman, an endeavour he keeps on to this day, as he finds it hard to grasp even the most basic of concepts.

Recently, Grazmot decided to leave the safety of Orgrimmar and venture through the scarred world of Azeroth, seeking to attain understanding with the help of the elements and the spirits, a most daunting task due to the recent Cataclysm that shook the world and its components.


	8. Vincent Reynolds

Vincent was born to a family of fisherman with a long history in Southshore. They were all known for being very short but bulky fellows, a trait that won them the nickname of ‘Dwarves’ among their peers. Vincent was no exception to the rule, and, while he was not fond of the name, he accepted it, seeing how nicknames for different families were a common occurrence. He spent most of his childhood with his mother, who sold the fish his father caught whilst spending most of his time on the sea. When he was not helping his mother, young Vincent was doing the things all boys loved to do: picking up fights, playing pranks, trying to impress girls, making a collection, in his case one of seashells, among other things.

When he became twelve, his father deemed him to be old enough to start learning the craft of fisherman, one that would likely be his living for the rest of his days. Knowing no better, Vincent accepted his destiny. He had once dreamt of being a knight along with the rest of the boys, but those dreams were long gone, buried away along with their childhoods. The days in the sea were not easy at all, and they were highly dependent of the sea’s mood. If they were lucky, all they had to face was the long wait for the nets to catch a decent amount of fish; if not, it became a battle to not be swept away from the boat by the waves, and they still had to find a way to catch something, or else the Reynolds would have no way to feed themselves.

It was a harsh job, but Vincent got used to it. They were poor, but made enough to eat and still put some money aside. Part of that money ended up being used to fund the marriage of Vincent‘s sister, who had engaged with a young businessman from Capital City. Vincent found love as well, marrying a young woman that had caught his fancy when he was still a teenager. Her name was Theresa, and she stayed with the Reynolds, helping her mother-in-law sell the men’s catches.

Their humble but quiet lifestyle was not to last forever, however. The echoes of the war of Stormwind reached their shores, and the town transformed, becoming a busy seaport. The fishermen suffered with this change, with their use of the port being taxed and the waters becoming busier. It became harder to make money, but the Reynolds persevered, rooted as they were to their ways.

Sadly, that was not the last of the changes. The savage Horde, composed of Orcs, Trolls and Ogres, marched on their lands. The Reynolds watched as their home was destroyed, forced to evacuated to Capital City. They had managed to escape with little else than the clothes they wore and their savings. Vincent enlisted as a recruit in the Lordaeron military, seeking to reclaim Southshore, while the rest of the family, including his then pregnant wife, stayed with his sister and her husband. The campaign was harsh for a fisherman. While he had developed strength, he was a stranger to the concept of “kill or be killed”, and only a combination of luck and bold tactics made it so that he earned no more than a few scars on his body. He also lost part of his right ear, but not in battle. As Vincent slept for the first time in a couple of days in a tent, he felt a stinging pain on said ear, and smelled the familiar scent of blood. When he turned to look, he found out that a rat had chewed out a good part of his ear. Disgusted, Vincent killed the creature, and from that day on, he made sure no rat, mouse or otherwise caused him problems by setting appropriated traps before going to sleep.

With Southshore successfully reclaimed, the Reynolds were ready to move back to their town. However, Vincent’s parents decided to stay in Capital City, helping their daughter and son-in-law. They were feeling old, they said, and they lacked the zeal to rebuild their fishing business from the ashes. Vincent, Theresa and their offspring, a beautiful girl who they called Margaret, journeyed back to Southshore. It was not easy at first, but Vincent’s share of the savings and the money he made In the military proved to be enough to buy a small house in the town, and he managed to find a spot in a fishing enterprise ran by an old man who claimed to have been a noble from Stormwind that sensed great potential in that line of business.

For many years, their life sailed smoothly. Vincent and Theresa had a second child, a boy that they named Martin and who often boasted about how he was going to be the greatest knight Lordaeron had ever seen, to his father’s amusement. Margaret was growing to become a beautiful young woman, but boys were kept at bay due to knowing that her father, a war veteran to boot, had no time for their empty promises, although once in a while one or another still tried their luck.

Unfortunately, the Undead Scourge struck, ravaging lives and villages, left and right. A deep sorrow invaded Vincent when he heard that even Capital City fell to the might of the Scourge… which meant that his parents, his beloved sister, and his brother-in-law, who was a good friend of his, were all dead, or, worse, raised as one of the ghouls that bolstered the Scourge’s frontlines. Vincent decided to leave his fisherman days behind once more, joining the defense of Hilsbrad Foothills. They were relatively successful, and the Scourge did not make it through their lands. Vincent made a vow to protect Southshore, so that his wife and children could live in one of the last places of Lordaeron untouched by the plague, and thus definitively joined the military as a guard.

For some more years, Southshore remained peaceful. There were occasional feuds with the Forsaken, a subset of undead that had been freed from the Lich King’s control, which was no less evil in Vincent’s eyes, but what mattered was that the Reynolds family was safe. That is, until the earth’s very entrails turned over, shaking the land. With the coming of the Cataclysm, the Forsaken made their move, attacking Southshore with their blight. Very few survived the powerful chemical weapon; Vincent happened to be one of them, for he had been on a patrol during the attack. Dumbstruck, he was forced to leave to Fenris Keep, forbidden to return to the inhabitable piece of land. Vincent tried to fight that back, to save his woman and children, but a man with who he occasionally shared a drink in the town’s tavern shattered his illusion, telling him that they had been found dead, left to rot as there had been no time to give the dead a proper burial. The fire inside the last of the Reynolds quenched, and a brooding Vincent made his way to Fenris Keep.

Alienated, Vincent spent some time with the survivors in the Keep, resting and mourning. One day, an offer was made to these survivors: they would be able to drink from the blood of a creature called “Worgen” along with a cure that would awaken the beast within them and allow them to shift to a ferocious form at will… more or less. The greatest thing about this ‘curse’, they said, was that it would make them stronger than they could ever hope to be, and, best yet, they would become immune to the undead curse, that is to say, they could not be raised as one of the Forsaken. They would be the ultimate weapon against the Forsaken, and possibly the key in Humanity’s last stand in the Northern Eastern Kingdoms. Vincent mulled on the matter for a few days. He had lost his beloved home and his family… there was little else going on for him anymore. So be it. He was already cursed with a lack of will to live, so another curse under his belt was nothing. Besides, if he were to be able to fight against the Undead and the Horde, to hopefully give future generations a better life, he would accept the Worgen curse gladly. At the very least, it would give him purpose.

Vincent Reynolds drank from the blood. The transformation was great: rage pulsed in his blood; his nostrils smelled with overwhelming precision; his ears had begun to detect new, once unknown noises. While the cure calmed his senses, it still took him a while to discipline the beast that was inside of him, and even then, he never managed to fully control it. No matter. He would slay the undead until the last had been forced back to death.

Vincent had one certainty: that he would be fighting the Forsaken and their allies until he drew his last breath.


End file.
